The Memory Garden (22 page)

‘You make me sound like a fairy!’

‘You’re supposed to be flattered.’ He touched her hand in a tentative movement.

‘Oh, I am,’ she said hastily.

‘We have a lot in common, don’t we?’ he said. ‘The garden, a sense of the past, all sorts of things.’

And our own pasts, she thought, struck by his air of sadness. She wondered what had not happened for him, whether it was only his broken relationship that had made him retreat down here, to lick his wounds.

‘What is it you intend to do down here?’ she asked suddenly.

‘
Do?
’ he said, narrowing his eyes, defensive. ‘My work. Live quietly, rebuild the house and the garden. Enjoy the peace and see what happens. Why, what do you want to “do” where you live?’ He poured them both another glass of wine.

‘Only, shouldn’t life have more . . . purpose?’

‘Do we need to be useful, do you mean?’

‘Well, yes, possibly. Or creative.’

He thought, then nodded. ‘There are many different ways of doing that. They don’t all have to be done as part of a community, do they? I’m not really a group person.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Do you feel your way of life is fulfilling?’

He put down his fork and considered this. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Not at the moment. I suppose I’m in limbo or undergoing some sea-change. I’m waiting to be carried by the next tide.’

‘Yes,’ she echoed, feeling the sudden weight of her grief. ‘That’s a bit like me.’

The waitress came to clear their plates. Mel licked ice cream from a long-handled spoon while Patrick drank cup after cup of syrupy espresso, watching her. A noisy crowd claimed the table next to them and they gave up trying to talk much. Finally Patrick asked for the bill and when it came the waitress left a small bowl of
amaretti
– almond biscuits wrapped in tissue paper.

It was dark when they stepped out into the still evening, munching their
amaretti
. Patrick gently clasped her hand and they walked downhill past the church, towards the sea. They stood on the promenade, looking out across the bay to the lighthouse winking in the far distance and the lights of little ships slipping through the distant darkness. All was quiet except for the whisper of the waves below.

Patrick leaned over the railing, staring down into the black water, deep in his own thoughts. ‘Do you ever feel as though it’s sucking you down, drawing you in?’ he asked quietly. ‘They’re treacherous, these seas.’

‘And thrilling and beautiful, some of the time,’ she replied, thinking of how exhilarated she had felt at Porthcurno only a couple of days before. The sea was much calmer tonight.

‘And like the powers of hell in a storm,’ he said. ‘But today they’re just lurking, biding their time.’ There was something bitter in his tone. It was beginning to rain now, very slightly. Fired by some angry energy, Patrick grabbed her hand and pulled her back up the hill. She could hardly keep up with him. ‘Patrick, don’t. Wait,’ she gasped. ‘My shoe . . .’

‘Sorry.’ He stopped under a streetlight in the marketplace and waited for her to slip the strap back over her heel, his breath coming hard. She looked up and was fascinated by the pulse beating wildly in his throat.

‘Sorry. What a brute I am,’ he whispered, and took her hand more gently this time, leading her up along the road to the car.

He didn’t speak as he drove, far too fast as usual, back through the narrow lanes to Merryn Hall, and Mel didn’t like to break into his thoughts for fear of disturbing his concentration. Why was he like this, a man who could be so peaceful and then suddenly tormented? She was slightly frightened, yet drawn to him at the same time.

By the time they bumped down the drive of Merryn Hall, the rain was falling steadily. ‘Come on in,’ urged Patrick as they hurried across the courtyard. She huddled under the porch as he fitted the key into the lock. Deep inside she could hear the telephone. The door swung open,
ring ring
, louder and louder,
ring ring
, and he crossed the hall into the kitchen to answer it.

Left in the hall, Mel tried not to listen, but her hearing did that trick that dogs have, of tuning into a sound that interests them, even through a cacophony of others. She knew she ought to walk away, into the drawing room, but she froze, her face reflected ghastly white in a mottled oval mirror.

‘No, it’s difficult to talk,’ came Patrick’s voice. The kitchen door started to close as though pushed, but then swung open again by itself. ‘I’ve got someone here . . . The person who’s renting the cottage.’

Someone. The
person
? Tears prickled.

‘Look, you’ll be okay. Take some deep breaths . . . yes, that’s right. You’ve got to ring him, you must. Right away. As soon as you come off the phone. I’ll call you in the morning. Are you okay? . . . Don’t be like that.’ This, gently. ‘No, that’s not fair . . . I’ll ring you back, promise. Look, for goodness’ sake call him then go to bed. I’ll speak to you in the morning . . . Goodnight.’

Mel found she could suddenly move and slid inside the drawing room just as Patrick emerged from the kitchen. She sat down quickly on one of the sofas. The room was dark, cheerless, smelled of ash. The grate was cold.

The door opened and Patrick walked slowly in. Mel stared at him, noticing at once his agitation. He passed a hand over his mouth, then seemed to recover.

‘Sorry about that. Now – would you like some coffee or something stronger?’

‘Patrick, are you all right?’

‘Yes – yes, of course. Why?’

‘You don’t seem it.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly. I was going to open a bottle of wine myself.’

‘I’d rather have a cup of tea, I think.’

After a moment she followed him out into the kitchen, pulling her cardigan close against the chill in the air. Patrick was standing by the stove. In one hand he held a bottle, but he hadn’t bothered to look for the corkscrew. He was staring into the distance. When he saw her he checked himself and yanked open a drawer. ‘Would you mind putting the kettle on?’ he asked, his voice toneless.

‘Patrick,’ Mel said, drawing up her courage. She walked over and touched his arm. ‘What’s happened?’

He shut the drawer slowly and put the bottle down on the table.

‘Really . . .’ he started to say, looking away, then in a forced voice, ‘It was Bella on the phone.’

‘Bella? You mean . . .’

‘My fiancée.
Ex
-fiancée, obviously. I suppose Chrissie has told you all about her?’

‘I don’t think Chrissie’s met her, Patrick, so no, she hasn’t told me anything.’

His eyes met hers at last and she saw he was a hair’s breadth away from tears, his face pale and pinched. He pushed impatiently at the hair falling across his forehead like a small boy, so she gently put her arm around him, as she would do to comfort a child. They stood like that together for a moment, she gently rubbing his shoulders, feeling his body quiver with distress.

‘Oh Mel,’ he said, raising his head. ‘I’m sorry, this is pathetic.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’ But the words seemed useless. ‘What did she want?’

‘She was having a panic attack. She gets them occasionally, especially when she’s on her own.’

‘On her own where?’ The Sahara Desert?

‘She’s in her flat. In Clerkenwell.’

‘Oh,’ Mel said flatly.

‘I know. It sounds odd, but I’m used to it.’

‘Look, sit down, let’s open this bottle.’ Mel fished the corkscrew out of the drawer and passed it to him then went to lift a glass, no, two – forget about tea – glasses out of the cupboard. She sloshed wine in both and pushed one towards him. ‘Drink,’ she commanded, sitting down opposite. ‘Now tell me all about it.’

It was a familiar tale. A man approaching forty, ready to settle down, meeting a woman ten years his junior who is flattered by his attentions.

‘Bella works for Connyngham and Hall – you know, the estate agents? We met through a mutual friend. I thought she was an extraordinary person. I still do. She’s so warm and lively, interested in people. We had similar backgrounds – do you know, her father was a farmer, too, but in Devon. We were good together – or so I thought. And she is very lovely.’

Here he hesitated, then pulled out his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and leafed through the notes and cards, finally drawing out a small photograph, which he passed to Mel.

She gazed at the pretty tanned face, the fine, naturally fair hair pushed back by the pair of dark glasses on her head. Bella was relaxed, laughing, a soft sweater tied loosely round her shoulders. She might have been on a yacht, or drinking iced tea after tennis. A Grace Kelly girl. A sort men fall for hook, line and sinker. Mel laid the photo on the table between them without a word.

‘I knew I had finally met the right person. Isn’t that odd? How wrong one can be.’

‘What happened?’ She felt overwhelmed by this golden vision of Bella.

‘She didn’t, in the end, feel the same certainty I did, I suppose is the answer. You know, we had talked everything through. The life we wanted together. We both agreed we hoped for children – or so she said – but she didn’t want to work all the hours of the day that she had to with her job and have to combine that with kids, so we talked about downshifting. Moving out of London, her getting a less demanding job. Then, eight months ago, Val died, and suddenly this place entered the equation.’ He gave a shuddering sigh.

‘I brought Bella down here. It was wrong from the start. She was horrified at how remote it was, how much needed to be done to the place. I said we could keep a house in London, why not? Do up Merryn gradually as a second home until we felt sure about it.’

‘It would have been quite a culture shock to move down here if you weren’t used to living in the wilds,’ Mel admitted. ‘I know it would be for me.’

‘Yes, I appreciated that. But she had been brought up deep in the Devon countryside. And, if you think about it, she’d be nearer her family here than when she was in London. Anyway, it wasn’t as though I insisted on us moving here. I’d have sold it if she had said the word, but she just wouldn’t make up her mind about anything. This place became a catalyst – it forced certain decisions about our relationship.’ He paused and took another large gulp of wine, as though to anaesthetise his feelings.

‘And then she told me. She had met someone else. Actually, she had re-met him – an old flame from law college.’

Mel was touched by the lines of pain and tiredness etched into his features. The light flickered and she looked up. A moth was dashing itself against the bare bulb.

Patrick didn’t notice. He was staring sightlessly into the dark shadows of the scullery. ‘What was most awful was that she couldn’t decide between us. I couldn’t stand it, I felt . . . stripped of my sense of self. In the end I broke it off. It was the only way to keep sane.’ The expression on his face was almost crazed now, desolate, hopeless. Mel fought to think of any words of comfort. With a moment of sudden clarity she remembered the phone call.

‘Has she accepted your decision?’ she whispered. ‘Is it hers also?’

‘At the time she agreed it was the right thing to do,’ Patrick said dully. ‘I know the other bloke has moved in with her. But he works late sometimes and she hates being on her own . . .’

So she’s got the best of all worlds, thought Mel scathingly, but she kept her mouth shut. Patrick would have to see this for himself. But then Mel could hardly talk, could she? She asked herself what she would do if Jake contacted her out of the blue, suggested that they start over again. Damn, was it the wine or Patrick’s misery that was making her cry, too.

Her chair jerked back with a teeth-jarring squawk as she went over to the sink and yanked a wad of kitchen paper off a roll lying on the windowsill to blow her nose. Against the black hatched glass she could see the hideous underbellies of a dozen crawling insects, moths, flies, beetles, drawn by the light. She shuddered.

‘You’re freezing,’ said Patrick, half rising from his chair.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ she said, but he picked up their glasses and touched her elbow.

‘Let’s turn on the electric fire in Val’s sitting room,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit late to make up one in the drawing room.’

They moved through and Mel stood watching him fiddling with the switches on the double-barred fire until it began to glow red. Where should she sit – the chair or the sofa? The strange misery rose in her chest, threatening to choke her.

He solved the problem for her. ‘Come next to me here,’ he said, sinking onto the sofa, so she sat down as close as she could without touching him and took her glass.

‘Would you like a blanket?’ he said anxiously, seeing her shiver despite the fire now blazing away. He leaned towards her, put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, rubbing her arm vigorously to warm her.

‘No, I’m all right,’ she said quietly. After a while, he was still again and she laid her head onto his shoulder.

They were silent for a minute, then Patrick said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for listening. It was a shock, her ringing like that.’

And you’ve got to ring her back tomorrow, thought Mel, but she didn’t feel like reminding him.

‘I . . . I know I shouldn’t ask about your situation, what happened to you. Chrissie just said your relationship had broken up.’

‘I know it’s only fair that I tell you,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘We were together four years. Jake’s a lecturer at the college where I teach. It . . . it got to the point where we had to decide. About getting married, I mean, having kids – the whole show. And there we stalled. He’d done all that once, you see, and he wasn’t ready to try it again. I suppose that’s it in a nutshell.’

‘Poor you.’ Patrick squeezed her arm gently. She lay, eyes closed, resting on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth, the peace, waiting for the misery to ebb away. It didn’t. Talking about Jake made her long for him again, brought home the fact that the fascinating closeness of Patrick didn’t feel like Jake. Patrick seemed bigger, fleshier, more reassuring, whereas Jake’s coiled-up energy was challenging, exciting. Even Patrick’s jacket smelled different – not unpleasant, just as if it had been kept at the back of an airless wardrobe. They took getting used to, these differences. She sighed and her warm breath on his neck made him turn his head towards her, then he shifted his whole body. He regarded her, calm now, and gave a sleepy smile. It was strange seeing someone’s face this close. How naked and vulnerable he seemed, how touchingly unfinished were his features.